


5 Times The Avengers Scared Peter

by itsparkerluck



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Avengers Tower, Cute Peter Parker, Domestic Avengers, Dropped - Freeform, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Mild Profanity, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Superfamily, dad tony stark, leave any suggestions in the comments pls, scott lang is nowhere to be seen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-04-23 01:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14321139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsparkerluck/pseuds/itsparkerluck
Summary: ...and one time Peter scared the Avengers.(Or: After May leaves for a business trip, Peter finds himself living at the Avengers Tower for a month. Things go down just about as you'd expect.)





	1. Father Figure

 

I.

 

 

"Ow, shit."

Peter's eye throbs painfully after webbing a mugger against the wall of a small store. Actually, everywhere throbs with what's most likely blossoming bruises. Swinging to the top of a small apartment building, Peter rips the mask off of his head. He groans, gingerly pressing the pads of his fingers against the injured eye. Enhanced healing or not, a dark bruise would surely be visible there for at least a day or two.

"Karen, what time is it?" Peter asks.

"It's currently 7:34 in the evening," the AI replies evenly. "I suspect that your aunt will be expecting you home at around this time."

Peter drops down to the ground, running in the undergrowth behind the houses to avoid any witnesses that could track him to his home. After locating his apartment, Peter scales the brick walls, carefully avoiding the windows. Reaching his floor, he peeks into his bedroom window. The door to his bedroom is ajar and he can see May in the kitchen from where he is, but that doesn't really matter. Not anymore. Casting a brief glance over his shoulder, he slides the frame down and crawls into his own room, dropping down onto the floor and closing the window behind him.

"Hi, Aunt May," Peter greets tiredly. He doesn't bother taking the suit off right then and there, slipping past May and the burnt dinner and grabbing an orange from the fruit bowl.

"Hey Peter, how was—oh." The warm smile drops from his aunt's face as she catches sight of the darkening bruise and Peter's exhausted expression, replaced by concern.

She hesitates, very obviously trying not to point out the obvious. "Um, how was it today?"

Peter shrugs. "Busy. Tiring. The usual."

May swallows. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really. Sorry," he feels the need to add. The pitying look in May's eyes makes him feel a little sick inside. He should probably start getting used to it soon.

Peter feels hands wrapping around him, pulling his face into her shoulder. "You know that you can tell me anything, right?"

"Yeah, I know." Peter leans heavily onto her. "I stopped a mugging today. It was fun, but he got me good across the face." It would be pointless to make up some bullshit excuse. She can monitor anything he does off of YouTube, anyway.

"Oh! I nearly forgot to tell you," May says suddenly, holding Peter out at arm's length. "My boss needs some of us to go out to Idaho for a month or so in a couple of days. They have a shortage on staff. She agreed to double my wage if I volunteered." She furrows her eyebrows. "I know it's a really short notice, but I thought it'd be good for us if I could go. If you don't want me to, then I don't have t—"

"No!" Peter interrupts quickly. "No, you should definitely go. I'll be fine over here, May. I can ask Ned if I can stay over at his."

May purses her lips. "Actually, I don't think that's a very good idea. I want someone who can monitor you while I'm gone."

"But Ned already knows about Spider-Man!" Peter protests.

"I meant someone who could actually keep you in check, not a sidekick who would encourage you to go out every afternoon saving the day." She sneaks him a small grin. "I figured you'd encourage me to go, so I've already phoned Tony about it, and he's agreed to allow you to stay at the Tower. There are a lot of vacant rooms there, and he's lending you one for free."

"T-Tony Stark?" Peter whispers, though he's not sure why he's whispering when they're the only two people in the room. "And you mean the Tower as in the Avengers Tower?"

"Yes, the Avenger's Tower." She smiles at his awed expression. "You're fine with that, right? You could work on...whatever you need to work on at your time there too," May offers, gesturing down at his suit, which Peter didn't even remember he was wearing.

Peter nods fervently. "Yeah! I mean, yeah, um, how many days did you say there were until you leave? Two?" May nods. "I'll start packing and stuff, then."

She gives him a warm peck on the cheek, ushering him away. "Try not to make a fool of yourself."

 

~ ~ ~

 

Happy's car pulls up to the Avengers Tower. Peter peers up at the slightly daunting building.

Parking in one of the open areas beside the building, he turns around in his seat to look at Peter, who's sitting in the back row. "If anyone asks you who you are, you're a new intern working for Tony." Peter nods in confirmation. That had always been his alibi, anyway.

Despite having fought with Tony Stark and owning a suit under the billionaire's name, it occurs to him that he had never been here before; only to what would soon be the new Headquarters after his leave. From inside the car, he can only make out the bottom of the massive 'A' that's plastered against the top of the Tower.

"You gonna get out, or do you need someone to carry you?" Happy's irritated voice snaps him from his awestruck daze. Peter hastily climbs out of the car, going back to retrieve his suitcase from the trunk. He pauses in front of the automatic glass doors.

"Um, which floor am I on?"

"I'll take you there." Happy brushes past him and into the building, Peter nearly tripping over his own shoes as he follows him.

Unsurprisingly, Peter earns stares from the people on the first floor. He stands out considerably, a teenager in a loose-fitting hoodie and worn jeans next to professional-looking businessmen and businesswomen dressed in suits and the sort. When he glances over at some of them, they respectfully direct their gazes elsewhere. Peter keeps his head down, eyes focused on the ground in front of him and trails obediently behind Happy.

"Happy Hogan," he tells the receptionist at the front desk.

She looks over Happy's shoulder. "And the child?"

Peter feels himself flare at the label, but doesn't do so much as stand there awkwardly, fiddling with the hem of his sleeves. Happy glances at Peter. "An intern. Peter Parker. He should already be registered."

They enter the elevator together, moving aside briefly as a woman leaves it. Happy swipes a badge over a scanner and presses the 30th floor.

Peter presses his face against the glass walls of the elevator, watching the streets beneath them as they begin their ascend. He's never been this high up in a building before, panning over endless weaving streets. Never had a reason to.

The elevator dings, and the silver doors slide open. Peter grabs his suitcase, and they walk down a hall with rows and rows of doors. Peter wonders briefly what they're fore, before they stop in front of one of the doors, with his name in small block letters on the door.

"This is your room. If you want to put a lock on it or anything, just ask FRIDAY."

Peter blinks. "Who's FRIDAY?"

He jumps as a female voice resonates throughout the hallway. "I am a natural-language user interface created by Mr. Stark. If you need anything, I'm always listening."

"Well, that's, uh. Reassuring," Peter says flatly.

Happy gives him a look, and opens the door for him. "Drop off your suitcase here, and I'll show you around."

Peter's momentarily blinded by the amount of _white_ in the room. The bedroom is roughly two or three times the size of his own, with pristine walls, a queen-sized bed, a blue armchair off to the side, a small desk in the corner and another door that presumably leads to the bathroom.

"It's really...clean," Peter comments, going over to lay his suitcase down beside the bed.

"Get used to it. This is where you're staying for the next month." Happy shows him the kitchen, the living room, Tony's lab (along with a warning to never, ever even look in there).

"The only floors you'll need are the first and the 30th. And here—" Happy hands him an identification card with Peter's face and name on it.

"Don't lose it. It'll grant you access to multiple floors, but I only want you on this one. Show it to anyone who asks." He glances down at his watch. "I have to go now. Tony's coming in about half an hour, so hang tight.

"Also," he adds as an afterthought. "Try not to be surprised if you get any visitors."

"Wait, what?" Peter asks, but Happy's already disappearing behind the elevator doors.

For the next few days, Peter grows familiar with the whole stillness and cleanliness of the Tower, when he's used to the small, cozy space of his and May's apartment. Sure it's further from Midtown, but having the permission to work on his suit's webbing in Tony's very own restricted lab makes up for it by a long shot. He meets Rhodey and Vision then, thankfully without majorly embarrassing himself and with minimal fanboying. He calls May every night, and Tony often comes over to check on his progress or tinker with whatever he's working on all day. As per usual, Peter leaves daily to do some Spider-Manning (after he finishes all of his homework, of course). So, Peter can safely say that he's settled in pretty nicely. But still, it gets lonely on occasion. Aside from Tony, Happy, and the nice lunch lady that stops by often, he doesn't really have anyone else.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The containment of half of the former Avengers team following what the media dubbed "The Civil War" shook the public. Following months and months of debate, it was finally concluded that they would have the choice between remaining in their prison cells or could return to live at the Avengers Tower under strict security and the one rule that they could not leave the building under any condition. Their return was kept under wraps by the government, agreeing not to inform the public about the team coming back home.

Steve takes a moment to look at the area around them. The 30th floor is strictly Avengers-space, and returning to the Tower felt like returning home. Rather, it _is_ returning home. He, Bucky, Sam, Clint and Wanda gather loosely in the living room, with Steve and Bucky conversing quietly in one corner, Sam and Clint reading on the couches, and Wanda sitting alone at the counter, drawing scarlet shapes in the air absentmindedly with her fingers.

"Welcome back, guys." Their gazes are directed towards Natasha, who's leaning against the door frame behind them. She walks over to them, exchanging a small hug with Wanda. "Did they treat you guys well over there?"

Clint snorts at her obvious sarcasm. "Anywhere's better than there."

Sam snaps his book closed. "I'd probably ask for my wings back, if it weren't for that douchebag placing us under house arrest."

"Again, it's better than there. I swear, one of the security guards was singing the national anthem while patrolling. How patriotic." Clint pauses to glance around. "Anyways, where's Rhodes and Vision?"

"Out saving the day. They'll be back in a few days." Tony pops in, startling them. He raises his hand in a brief wave. "Hey everyone." His avoiding eye contact with both Steve and Bucky doesn't go unnoticed by anyone. He opens the fridge door and pulls out a cup of apple sauce and a spoon, and begins heading off to a glass room with all of the blinds pulled, presumably his workspace.

Before disappearing behind the door, Tony points at Wanda. "No witchy stuff while you're under my watch. Same goes for the rest of you; if they catch you doing anything, my ass will be handed to me."

A long silence fills the room.

"Goddammit, I lost my page," Sam curses softly as he rifles through his book.

"You were on page thirty-four," Wanda pipes helpfully. Sam grunts out a thanks, flipping to said page.

"Tony said no magic," Bucky calls from the corner. Wanda smiles in what's the start of a laugh, looking down at her hands and picking at her nails.

Clint taps a finger against his chin. "I get the feeling that as long as we're still under house arrest, it's going to be just as boring as it was in prison. Lemon cakes, anyone?" He receives various noises of agreement, and is about to stand up from his spot on the smaller couch when the elevator dings, causing everyone in the room to freeze.

They glance around, faces taking on similar looks of confusion and caution as they realize that everyone who should be in the room is already in the room. Natasha moves forward, a hand on the gun at her hip.

Footsteps pit-pat towards them, and a young, enthusiastic voice travels from around the corner. "Mr. Stark! I know you told me it wasn't necessary, but I gotta try out this new formula for the w—"

Many things happen at once in the same few seconds. Bucky moves forward, whipping Natasha's gun out of the holster at her protest and Clint grabs a large knife from one of the kitchen drawers as a boy rounds the corner, breaking off abruptly with a choked noise. Almost all of the Avengers were in the room, one holding a gun and one with a knife. Steve and Wanda both stiffen noticeably at the youth of the stranger.

"...Oh," the boy breathes, hands raised in a position of surrender. "Oh. Oh shit. Holy _shit_."

"This floor can only be accessed by people with a high-status badge." Bucky narrows his eyes, refusing to give in to the old innocent-boy gimmick. "Who are you?"

The boy opens his mouth as if to respond, but he only manages a high-pitched squeak of both awe and terror.

Bucky visibly falters, adjusting the grip on the gun. Clint sets the knife back down on the counter with a weary sigh.

Steve snaps into action, moving forward to stand between Bucky and the younger. He places a hand on the gun, slowly guiding it down to point at the floor. "Calm down, guys. He's just a kid." Steve turns back around to face the other. "What's your name?"

He falters. "U-Um, Peter. Peter Parker."

"Well, Peter, what are you—"

Tony takes that moment to burst from his office, a thunderous looks in his eyes as he processes the situation.

"What the hell is going on out here? He's just an intern."

Wanda tilts her head. "I thought you didn't take interns."

"Yeah, well, he's different. And drop the gun, for fuck's sake." He glares at Bucky. When the supersoldier hesitates, he snaps harshly, louder this time, "Drop the gun, Barnes."

Bucky obediently drops the handgun to the floor with a resonating thud.

Turning back to Peter, he speaks in a soft, fond voice that Steve never realized Tony was capable of. "You're back earlier than you usually are. What's up?"

"I, um—I was gonna use your lab for a little bit to..." He trails off.

"Wait, lab? You mean the lab that you don't even let the Avengers themselves into?" Sam asks incredulously.

Tony sighs. "He's a special case. Just leave it."

"So you're letting him stay on _this_ floor? Tony, there are so many rooms on the other floors, so why _this_ one?"

"I need to be able to keep an eye on him. I'll explain later." Code for, _I'll find another way to avoid this question later._

Clint's unusually subdued despite the absurdity of the situation, gaze flitting back and forth between Tony and Peter, his eyebrows knitting as he struggles to two and two together. When he does, his eyes widen comically, one hand coming up to stifle a loud gasp.

Everyone turns to look at him.

The archer's voice grows eerily quiet and uncharacteristically serious. "I didn't realize there was this side to you, Tony."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Tony demands, trying to hide his growing panic. He didn't need them figuring out Peter's secret identity, not _now_. Peter's confusion is mirrored on his face, but he also feels the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

Clint sighs. "I though we were closer than this. You don't have to hide the fact that you have a son from us, you know."

A beat.

"Oh, really?" Steve asks with an eyebrow raised, at the same time Tony deadpans, "What."

"Hold on," Peter blurts. "He's not my—"

"I kinda see it, but I kinda don't." Sam squints at the two, tilting his head. Bucky mimics him.

"Jesus Christ, he's just a kid that's living here for the time being. I've only cooked dinner for him twice. He'll be gone in less than a month."

"Still a dad," Clint calls loudly.

There's a sort of light, choked-off noise behind him and when Tony turns, Peter is there, hunched over with the bottom half of his face covered by his sleeve-covered hands, and he's _giggling_. Not quite laughing, but giggling, suppressed and high-pitched.

"Aww," coos Natasha. Peter's face turns pink.

"Oh my God, guys, go to your rooms or something." Tony runs a hand down his face. "Don't," he warns Sam when he opens his mouth to make another snarky comment.

Sam mutters _still a dad_ under his breath as the former and current Avengers disperse reluctantly. When the others are out of earshot, Peter whispers, "Sorry 'bout that, _Dad_."

Tony's not sure whether to punch him or hug him.

As Wanda is ready to leave, she pauses at the door, looking back over her shoulder. Completely ignoring Tony, she strides back over, approaching the younger boy and resting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"I apologize if they appear intimidating. They are much kinder when you get to know them." Wanda smiles. "Besides, it would be nice to have someone around my age here as well."

Peter blinks, fumbling for words. "U-um, okay. Thanks," he adds as an afterthought. Wanda lingers a moment longer, her eyes still focused on the younger boy. And then Tony realizes what she's doing.

"Wanda, no," Tony interrupts immediately. "Don't—"

But it's too late. Tony watches helplessly as Wanda peers into the carefully-buried past of Peter Parker, one that Tony himself hasn't even delved that deep into out of respect for his protégé. Her expression morphs into teary-eyed pity as if she were looking at a beat-up puppy, while Peter looks confused as to why she's just standing there and staring at him.

She pats his shoulder one more time, gives him a watery smile, and leaves without a word.

For fuck's sake, Tony _really_ needs to give her a talk about privacy. Like, right now. He shoos Peter off to his workspace before taking off after her.

If Wanda notices Tony following her to her room, she doesn't acknowledge it. She stops at the foot of her bed, Tony nearly tripping over his own feet at the sudden pause.

"Wanda—"

She whips around, an intenseness akin to fury blazing in her brown eyes. "You told us the child is only an intern. You lied to us, Mr. Stark."

Tony throws his hands up in mock surrender. "And I did that because what I don't need right now is multiple reactions like this. You can't just fucking  _do_  this; it's the ultimate invasion of privacy."

Wanda isn't having it, hands bunched into fists as if she's struggling to contain herself. "Do you understand why I hate you?" Wanda spits. "I hate you because you took me and my brother's childhood away from us at such a young age, which is why we agreed to become weapons. For as long as I had known, I wanted nothing more than to kill you with my own hands because of what you took from me—from us. And now you're doing it again, to someone too innocent and naive to see that his idol is using him as a tool." She steps forward with every sentence, and Tony doesn't realize that he's backing away from her as she approaches.

Tony feels a light pressure beginning to contract around his throat, and he glances down to see Wanda's hands glowing a faint red. "Stop that, Wanda. You're losing control again." He keeps his voice low.

Wanda follows his eyes, and the pressure disappears. She's breathing heavily as if she had just ran a mile, and sits down on the edge of her bed with her head in her hands. Tony sits down beside her, keeping a respectful distance from her as he waits patiently for her to calm down.

"He is sad," Wanda murmurs after a moment, startling Tony. "He has lost so many important people in his life, so he is afraid to love again. Peter hides behind his mask because he is afraid to lose anyone else. He is also afraid to lose you."

Tony winces at the words before he can stop himself, but keeps his face carefully blank and impassive.

He lets out a short huff of breath, looking up at the ceiling when Wanda finishes, and he starts, "The first time we met, the kid told me something that stuck with me for a while. I'm sure you saw it." Out of the corner of his eye, Wanda nods mutely.

"I gave him the suit because I knew that even if I tried to stop him, he would still be able to bullshit his way around me somehow. We all got a little bit of Peter in ourselves, too. Seeing people suffer around us and not being able to help but throw ourselves into the midst of battle to protect them. I feel like it'd be a bit hypocritical of me to deprive him of that." He glances down at his watch and stands up. "Gotta go now. Kid wants egg rolls for lunch."

Wanda watches wordlessly as the billionaire disappears behind the doorframe. A small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

_Still a dad._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the bit of Peter meeting the Avengers! What did you think? And what do you want to see in this fic? I'm open to any and all suggestions!
> 
> I get that this probably comes off as pretty cheesy, but this fic is mainly self-indulgent. Enjoy it while you can before Infinity War comes out, folks. And as always, please leave a comment + kudos, they all mean a lot to me.


	2. Second Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The responses to the first chapter have absolutely floored me, especially since I was really nervous about it in the first place, so thanks for that! Here's chapter 2, have fun & enjoy!!!

 

II.

 

 

Time is a funny thing. Sometimes it feels like an invisible constraint, making your heart beat and your mind race when you realize you don't have much left. Sometimes it can't go by fast enough, and it leaves you overwhelmingly impatient. Other times, it hangs suspended in the air, feeling as if it's both sped up and slowed down at the same time. Right now is the third, as Peter hunches over the desk, scribbling down and crossing out potential formulas for his webbing. How could he make them stronger, but elastic at the same time? How could he effectively switch between the different types of webbing during a fight? Multiple beakers sit beside the notebook, all tainted with a sticky white substance, all failed attempts. He often loses track of time like this, especially when the blinds are drawn over the windows of the lab so he can't see the time of day, mind flying faster than he can write.

Tony comes in a few times, either to grab something or check on Peter, watching him work for a minute or two before leaving. Peter pays him no mind, absorbed in his own work.

He's sketching out potential designs for the web-shooters when footsteps approach his side, a little heavier than the previous ones.

"Hi," Steve Rogers says very suddenly by his ear.

Peter jumps a few good inches from his seat, scrambling to snap the spiral notebook closed. But it's too late, and the former Avenger just watches with an amused expression as Peter struggles to compose himself, gathering the messy beakers in his arms and setting them down on the floor.

Peter passes by the ex-hero in the main area almost every day when he returns from patrolling, usually avoiding eye contact when he sees him occupied with something else, not wanting to interrupt Steve. It's been two days since the Avengers made themselves at home, but he's yet to really introduce himself privately to any of them.

"U—um. Hi, Mister—Cap—Captain Rogers. I'm a—I'm a big fan." He extends his right hand out for a tentative handshake because that's apparently what you're supposed to do, only to notice that Steve's holding a small plate above his head with _his_ right hand, and quickly swaps his hands. The other accepts the handshake warmly.

Steve sets the plate down by his notebook. A familiar, sweet smell wafts over him, invading his senses in the best way. "Tony told me that you like peanut butter brownies, so I baked some for you." He takes one for himself, shoving it in his mouth. "You've been in here for quite a while now. A boy needs food to grow," he says around the mouthful.

"Thanks," Peter says sincerely, and he means it. He reaches out to take one for himself, setting it between his teeth. The brownies are freshly baked, chocolate chunks melting blissfully on his tongue. He lets out a small sound of appreciation around the bite.

Steve chuckles. He leans forward curiously. "What were you working on? 'Web designs'?" he asks, reaching out to flip open the notebook. Peter's hand instinctively jerks up as if to slap the other's hand away, but he pulls back immediately, cheeks flushed. Steve gives him a look, but retracts his arm respectfully.

"That was, uh..." Peter sweats nervously under the scrutinizing gaze of his idol.

"School project?" Steve supplies.

Peter releases a breath. "Yeah, that. School project. We're studying—" He falters, not entirely sure where he's going. "Computer science," he bursts finally, hoping that Captain America's ancientness keeps him from probing the concept of technology further. "We're making our own websites."

Steve definitely doesn't look like he believes him, but thankfully, he doesn't press the issue. Instead, he looks around the room, pulling the ends of his sleeves further up his wrists. "Are you not cold? It's really chilly in here." He rubs his arms as if to prove his point.

Peter snorts unexpectedly. Steve raises an eyebrow at him.

"'Take it from a guy who's been frozen for sixty-five years'," he quotes with practiced ease, reaching out to grab another brownie. "'The only way to _really_  be cool is to follow the rules.'"

It's Steve's turn to choke. "Where did you hear that from?"

"Your PSAs, remember?"

"Oh," Steve says faintly. "That was ages ago. I didn't realize they still showed those."

"Well, they do. All of them are permanently imprinted in my mind now."

"Oh, gosh. I hate you," he says warmly, giving his shoulder a playful slap that feels more like someone chucking a pan at him. "I can see why Tony likes you so much."

Peter's face grows embarrassingly warm for probably the thirtieth time within the last 10 minutes, his mouth opening as he attempts to stutter out a response. Steve, sparing him from the extra humiliation, simply ruffles his hair warmly and leaves him to his own thoughts.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Peter exhales heavily, dropping his head into his hands and fisting his hair with a soft groan of exasperation. "FRIDAY, can you lock the door? And keep it locked whenever I'm in here alone."

"As you wish, Mr. Parker." A faint _click_ reaches his ears.

He flips open his notebook back to where he left off, and he stares blankly at the sketch on the paper, his mind both mentally cringing at himself but also racing with _holy shit I just met Captain freaking America._

Peter stares at it for another good minute before flipping it closed when that proves itself pointless, shutting the dirty beakers in a cabinet and gathering the notebook and other stray blueprints scattered face-down on the floor in his arms. He straightens, rolling his shoulders to counter the stiffness there, standing up and nudging the door open with his shoulder and letting it close on its own behind him. And, oh, he _has_ been in there for a long time. It was evening when he first left, with the sun sinking back down behind the line of skyscrapers, and now it's pitch black outside, the only visible things outside being the lit rooms behind the windows of the buildings and the passing of cars hundreds of feet below them.

Wanda and Vision are conversing softly to each other by the island table, and they both look up at Peter when the door shuts slowly behind him.

"Are you done with your studying?" Vision asks him. Peter nods mutely.

"Sleep well, _puiut_." Wanda gives him a small wave. Peter doesn't ask her what it means, but just nods again and heads down to his room.

Peter sinks down to his knees beside his bed after locking the door, shoving the notebook and paper under it beside the heap of his Spider-Man suit, covering it with a folded blanket.

He's about to head to the bathroom to brush his teeth when the exhaustion finally catches up to him, rolling over him in a dizzy wave of nausea. Peter gives up, stepping back until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and he sits down heavily. And shit, he has school tomorrow too. Before the spider bite, Peter would be fine with only sleeping a few hours at a time, but not anymore. Whatever screwed with his body seemed to also screw with his energy levels.

It takes more willpower than he'd like to admit to raise his shirt over his head. He strips down to his underwear, pulling on a random t-shirt before lifting the edge of the covers and slipping underneath them, burrowing himself in the soft blanket.

"Lights off, FRIDAY," Peter says softly, voice muffled by the blanket that's pulled up to his nose.

The lights blink to darkness.

 

~ ~ ~

 

As the all-too-familiar sound of a gunshot rings in his head, Peter wakes with a start. Not with a gasp, or by shooting straight up in his bed, but he gains consciousness without moving and opens his eyes a moment later. He's breathing hard.

His mind registers the shivering and the familiar feeling of wet, cold sticking his drenched pajamas uncomfortably to his skin.

Peter forcibly slows his breath, barely able to breathe as his body is paralyzed with something akin to pure paranoia. He feels stiff under the blankets, not daring to move as his heartbeat drums relentlessly in his ears, a thrumming pressure he can't escape from. He can't see, can't think, can't move, can't—

A choked noise escapes his throat before he can stop himself, and he curls up on his side with his head burrowed as much as he can into the fluffy pillow, both hands clasped tightly over his mouth, muffling his whimpers. The blanket grows heavy on top of him, like cement crushing his shoulders. He scrunches his eyes shut, senses straining for any sort of noise or movement, anything at all that could make him feel a little more at home, but there's none of Aunt May bustling about his small apartment, or even the chirping of early-rising birds in the trees just outside of his window. It's too quiet. Fancy or not, the cleanliness of the room makes him feel strangely nostalgic and, well, homesick.

Peter tears the sheets from his body, body racking with more shivers as his sweat-drenched skin meets the chilly dawn air. He peels his pajamas from his body and blindly grabs a sweatshirt that's draped over his chair and throws it and a pair of sweatpants on, burrowing himself in the thick cotton for a moment before pushing himself to his feet, nearly falling over immediately when his knees threaten to buckle.

He blinks rapidly, eyes stretching wide open as he adjusts to the dim blue lighting of early morning. Peter moves along the wall, fumbling for the door knob as he reaches it and creaking the door open, peeking out into the hallway. It's dark, and he can barely make out anything in that hallway save for the glow on one end from the light filtering in from the large outer windows. Thankfully, the floorboards don't make a sound under his feet as he moves bare-footed, although it is admittedly foreign to not hear the familiar creaking from navigating his own apartment.

Peter purposefully slows his breath when he picks up footsteps coming from the other end of the hall, where the light's coming from. One foot sounds slightly heavier than the other, like they're limping, but they're not. He stills, moving to the side and pressing himself against the wall as a taller figure rounds the corner. Peter wishes his eyes would adjust to the dim lighting sooner, as he squints to make out who it is that's approaching him. They probably can't see him, shrinking back against the shadows of the wall, _hopes_ they can't see him as the hairs on the back of his neck raise.

The figure stops about halfway down, as if they've just noticed him.

There's a beat of silence, and then—

"Peter?"

It's Bucky. Of course it's Bucky; he should've recognized his footsteps from the very beginning.

For a fleeting moment, Peter considers remaining completely still in hopes that Bucky will dismiss it as a trick of the eyes. But he steps forward anyway, fumbling with the ends of his sleeves as he emerges from the shadows. "Hi," he says in a small voice.

Peter gets a better look at him now. His long hair is pulled back into a short ponytail, a jacket hooked over his human forearm. The metal one gleams brightly in the dimness.

Bucky's guarded expression seems to soften, the tension leaving his shoulders as he catches sight of him.

"W—What are you doing here?" Peter inquires tentatively.

Bucky gives a one-shouldered shrug. "Same as you. Can't sleep."

"Even so," he continues. "You should probably get back to bed anyway. It's a Friday, so you still have school tomorrow." This is a side of the soldier Peter hasn't really seen yet. He seems to, well, _care_ a little more than Peter would expect.

"I can't," Peter confesses. He hesitates for a good moment, fiddling with his fingers, before continuing honestly. "I get these, um, _dreams_  that kind of come in...episodes. When I fall back asleep, they just resume like I'd never woken up in the first place. It's always been this way," he adds.

Bucky looks at him in the same pitying way every adult has in his life. Peter hates it, but he's kind of grateful nonetheless.

"I get it," Bucky says simply, not pressing him further, to Peter's relief. He turns back around and heads to the main area, with Peter treading unsurely behind him. Bucky goes to the counter and fixes himself a cup of coffee, clearly lacking the intent to go back to sleep anytime soon, sitting in one of the bar stools and gazing blankly out the window, paying the other no mind. Peter wonders briefly how many times Bucky's sat alone like this, unable to sleep and with no one to talk to.

After a moment of hesitation, Peter follows Bucky and hops up next to him, pulling out his phone and texting Ned. _Hi, can't sleep._ He never gets a response at 4 in the morning and doesn't expect one, but still, it makes him feel a little better anyway.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Bucky's eyes flicking over to stare at him for a good moment before turning back to look at the horizon when he thinks Peter's noticed. It's kind of freaking him out, honestly; he can never tell what he's quite thinking.

Bucky sets down his coffee mug with a quiet _clink_."You don't like me very much, do you?" Bucky asks softly, unexpectedly.

"No!" Peter protests, startled by the sudden question. "No, I do like you, I like you a lot. You're super great to have around. You, um. Make good food. You know those grilled cheese sandwiches you make? They're like, _really_ good. And I usually don't even like grilled cheese, you know? I mean, the only times I've actually tried grilled cheese is when my aunt makes it, so that might be why. You—" He cuts himself off. "I'm rambling, aren't I?" Peter asks sheepishly.

Bucky doesn't regard his last question, a question that's not really supposed to be answered in the first place. He merely quirks an eyebrow.

"Okay," Peter sighs. "Okay, maybe a little. Your first impression wasn't exactly ideal for me, I guess."

Bucky huffs. "Yeah, I've been meaning to say apologize for that. Being forced to work with HYDRA didn't help. Does some stuff to your brain." Bucky brings up his metal arm to tap his temple.

Peter knows that Bucky doesn't mean anything by the offhand comment, but he can't help but flinch. Bucky does too.

"Sorry," they say at the same time.

"'M sorry, I just—it's not that I don't like you, Mr. Barnes," Peter mumbles bashfully. "It's just that you were on the news a lot, about a month or so ago. The fact that you're part cyborg doesn't seem to help much," he quips, but the half-hearted attempt at a joke seems to fall flat.

"The media doesn't approve of me very much, or so I've heard. And please, just call me Bucky. Anything else is a little strange for me." Bucky looks down at his metal arm, flexing his fingers a few times. "If it helps you feel any more at home, I can take this off occasionally."

"You can do that?" Peter asks, wide-eyed.

"Dunno," Bucky says immediately. "Probably shouldn't on my own, but it's worth a shot."

"Then you, um, probably shouldn't. I'm good. I'm super good."

Peter eyes the metal arm. It seems almost real on its own, despite the ridges of the material very clearly showing. It seems to follow every minuscule movement, even the illusion of muscles rippling when Bucky lifts the coffee mug to his lips and sets it back down again. Peter doesn't realize that he's leaning forward until Bucky clears his throat, swallowing down a light laugh.

Peter immediately blinks his gaze away, glancing back when Bucky doesn't remark. "What is it made out of?"

"This?" Bucky stretches out his arm, tilting it in a way that catches the faint light from the rising sun. "The first one that I was equipped with was titanium. I owe it to the geniuses at Wakanda who helped fix me a new one out of vibranium. The strongest metal in the world." He grips Peter's wrist, maneuvering it so that his palm faces upwards, and he sets his metal hand palm-up in Peter's.

"The strongest metal in the world," Peter echoes faintly. "Wow." He admires the shiny metal hand that's propped in his, wiggling the fingers to make a faint clicking sound. "How does it work? Is it muscle reinnervation? How are the movements so fluid? Can you feel anything with it?"

"I'm actually not entirely sure how it works," Buck says amusedly, flexing the fingers to entertain him. "I can't really feel anything, just kind of vibrations in my shoulder. I've gotten used to it now."

"Wow," Peter says again, softly. "That is so _cool_."

Bucky feels a sudden pang of familiarity with the situation, but he can't entirely place it. He retracts his left arm from Peter's lax grip, slipping his jacket on.

"Doesn't it ever need maintenance or anything?"

Bucky pulls the hairband out of his hair, letting it brush over his shoulders. "Hopefully not. It's not like I can stroll out of the Tower to get it checked right now, either. Even so, the first thing I would do is take a tour around downtown. I never really had the chance to do that, even out of HYDRA and cryo."

There's a pause. Peter tilts his head thoughtfully. "What if I went with you?"

Bucky looks incredulous.

"But what if I did?" Peter presses. "When my aunt grounds me, she lets me go out as long as she's there to monitor me."

"A legal guardian escorting a child is a little different from a child escorting someone who's suspected of killing the former king of Wakanda." _And a lot more,_ he doesn't add.

Peter bristles at _child_."But I bet I could persuade Mr. Stark," Peter insists adamantly. "He knows you're not a bad guy."

Bucky winces, covering up his reaction by reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. _You don't quite get it._ "I won't stop you from trying," Bucky says anyway.

Peter beams.

"So," he hums. "You ever been on a motorcycle before?"

"What?" Peter's eyes widen. "No, never. I've always wanted to ride one, though."

"Tell you what; when you get permission from Tony, I'll take you for a run on my own if you're free after school."

"Wha—are you kidding?" Peter asks in a high-pitched whisper, eyes widening with pure awe. "That'd, um, that'd be _great_ , wow—"

Bucky feels a little flustered under the gaze of the bright-eyed boy. "Don't sweat it. It's more for my own personal pleasure than anything."

"But still, _wow._ "

 

~ ~ ~

 

"I don't care if you have to go to prison and back to hunt down those files, but I'm expecting them on my phone within the next four hours."

Tony shoves his phone into the pocket on the inside of his suit sourly, flagging down a taxi. He drops down into the backseat without so much as greeting the driver, who looks as if he's seen a ghost. "Take me to the Tower."

He slumps down into his seat as the taxi picks up speed, slipping out his phone and beginning to type out a message to Pepper, when his phone buzzes once, twice with a second message. He glances at the notification on top of his screen.

 _Peter: hi mr dtark_  
  
_Peter: look to ur rifht_

Tony's gaze flits out the window, a little irritatedly. When he sees nothing but passing cars and a flash of trees whipping by, he's about to type out a flat response when he hears the distinct sound of a motorcycle approaching. He glances out the window just in time to see Bucky and Peter shoot past him on a motorcycle, Peter's arms wrapped around the supersoldier's abdomen and his hand clenched tightly around his phone.

_Peter: nyoooooooooommm_

_Tony: What the fuck_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I threw two in here but let's just call it one for now, they were cute ideas but were also kind of short. I might do this again in the future too.
> 
> Also: I don't know how to write Bucky, but he seems like a chill dude. So there ya go.
> 
> (Pls comment if any of the content seems inaccurate or anything, and I'd love love LOVE for any prompts, ideas or things you want to see in this fic. Also, I can't really guarantee that other chapters will be as long as these, since I did kind of combine two to make it longer. But again, leave behind any suggestions!!)


	3. Imprecations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like everyone really loved the nyoom; I was excited about putting it in there too. All of your comments made my day, tysm for the support :') 
> 
> NOTE: These chapters aren't going to be MAINLY focused around the Avengers scaring Peter/vice versa, but more of exploring their relationships and seeing how Peter interacts with them. There's hardly much of that in this chapter, just a tiny bit in the beginning. 
> 
> I'm SO sorry for the delay. It took me a while to actually be content with this chapter, after rewriting certain segments multiple times. I hope you like this chapter, I put quite a bit of effort into it.

 

III.

 

 

Peter's sitting at the desk in his room and working on his History homework when an angry yell nearly makes him drop his pencil in surprise. He tenses, setting the pencil down gingerly and turns around in his chair to watch the door, the hairs on the back of his neck raising. He couldn't make out who the one making the noise was, but it certainly didn't sound happy. Standing up, Peter creaks the door open a little wider, tiptoeing cautiously down the corridor and stopping as he nears the main area, and from here he can make out the words more clearly.

"You motherfucking stupid ass _bitch!_ " Clint's yelling, drowning out Steve's faint protests in the background.

Peter peeks around the corner to see Clint, Sam and Steve on the couch with Mario Kart on the screen. Steve is watching with mild interest as Clint and Sam hunch over, glaring intensely at the screen as they steer their remotes. Peter chokes back a laugh as he walks over. Steve notices him, and scoots over to make room for him. The other two hardly acknowledge him, focused on the screen.

"Do you have any more controllers?" Peter asks, plopping down between Steve and Clint.

"Yeah. Do you want to play?" Steve stands up, leaning forward to grab one of the two left and handing it to him.

"Move out of the way, big guy. I can't see a thing," Sam mutters. He curses when a green shell hits him, Clint cackling loudly in response as he zooms past him. "A green shell?! How do you hit someone with a _green shell?!_ "

"Why aren't you playing, Mr. Rogers?" Peter asks as he tightens the strap around his wrist.

"Me, play? I don't stand a chance against these two." Steve chuckles.

"You know how to play?" Clint asks as Peter turns on his Wii remote.

Peter gasps in mock offense. "I'm a millennial of the 21st century. Of course I know how to play."

The race ends with Clint in third and Sam in fifth. Sam sits back with a huff of exasperation.

"I'm gonna beat you someday. I'm gonna."

"You're getting there," Steve reassures him.

After Peter's connected to the game, they bicker over which track to race on.

"Rainbow Road? Who the hell likes _Rainbow Road?_ All you're doing is trying not to fall off."

"DK Summit's hardly any better," Peter fires back. "I always end up getting stuck in the tall snow."

"That's why this game takes _skill_ —"

Clint, ignoring them, goes on to select Coconut Mall at both of their protests. Steve watches on bewilderedly.

They start the race with Clint as Peach, Sam as Toad and Peter as Koopa Troopa. There's a moment of silence as they start the race.

"Fuck!" Clint bursts. "I literally just _died_  in _Coconut Mall_. How is that even possible?"

Steve winces, hands clasped tightly together as if he's restraining himself from either punching Clint or covering Peter's ears. Maybe both.

"Is he always this angry?" Peter asks with mild amusement.

Sam nods in affirmation.

"Not particularly," Steve answers, ignoring Sam. "Video games can do this to a person, as I've seen."

Two rounds in (in which Peter wins all of them by a long shot, of course), his phone vibrates with a familiar tone. It's Ned. Peter's face flushes when everyone's eyes go straight to the yodeling coming from his pocket.

"Is this what children listen to these days?" Steve inquires with genuine bemusement as Peter yanks it out of his pocket, denying the call with fumbling hands.

"That was, uh, my friend from school." He's quick to loosen the wrist strap, handing the remote to Steve. "Can I go call him back?"

Clint pauses the game, eyes him scrutinizingly. "Cute. Remind me again, which city street did Tony pick you off of?"

"Kid told me he was from Queens," Steve supplies. Peter wrinkles his brow at him. _When did I tell him that?_

Sam waves him off. "Said kid's annoying as heck. Can't concentrate with his squeaky chipmunk voice. Go off and frolic with your nerd friends."

Peter tilts his head. "How'd you know that I'm a nerd?"

Steve nudges the boy with his elbow. "Don't take it to heart. He loves you."

"Did you not hear a word I said?" Sam grumbles.

"Maybe he's gone deaf in his old age," Clint calls as Peter heads for the hallway. Steve snorts.

Peter stops at the end of the hallway, his back pressed against the wall as he taps on Ned's name, disfigured by the sheer amount of cracks on the screen. He puts the phone up to his ear. It barely dials once when Ned picks up.

"Peter! Peterpeterpeter!!"

Peter glances over his shoulder briefly at the three bickering ex-Avengers on the couch, cupping his hand around the phone. "Ned! You just interrupted me from playing Wii with Hawkeye and Falcon!"

Ned pauses, as if he's contemplating if Peter's being serious. He is.

"Okay. Okay," Ned says, taking a deep breath, forcibly calming himself down. "That is _so_ cool and you gotta tell me about it later, but that's not what I was calling about. Listen, I'm sitting in my apartment right now and I'm watching CBS on TV and there's a bunch of football-sized drones hovering around. If you're not majorly busy, then maybe you could—"

Peter's already running to his room, getting down on his knees and yanking his suit out from under the bed. "I'm gonna be there soon. Wait, Ned, don't hang up yet!" he yells into the phone as he changes erratically.

"Wha—"

"Guy in the chair, Ned. What do they look like?"

"Oh," his friend breathes, a little giddily. "Well, they're silver and kind of look like bees with pincers. Kinda like that one Pokémon—what was it—"

"Beedrill?" Peter supplies.

"Yeah! But instead of the drills on their arms, they're scissors."

"What are they doing?"

"I don't know," Ned confesses. "They're all kinda just flying around, not hurting anyone—I see the Avengers Tower in the background, they can't be far. You'll see 'em."

"Thanks!" Peter grunts. "I can't hold my phone while I'm swinging, so I'm gonna have to call you back, okay? Thanks, dude."

Peter can hear the grin in Ned's voice. "It's an honor, Spider-Man."

~ ~ ~

Ned was right, there's a lot of them. For the most part, they seem to be hovering listlessly above the roads. The people milling about below them are pointing, some with their phones out, and some ducking for cover in the nearest building, not willing to take any chances.

Peter camps out on top of one of them, eyeing the drones from afar. "Karen, what are they?"

"I'm not sure. I'm currently seeing twenty-two of them. Their average speed is calculated to be 32 miles per hour. They appear to have very hazardous blades, but will not be able to penetrate your suit, intricately woven with cutting-edge fibres—"

"That's great. Are they alien?"

"No, the drones are made primarily from aluminum."

They're not a threat at that moment as far as Peter could tell, but all of them turn to face him when Peter jumps to the top of a roof and aims his webs at one, knocking the wings out and sending it careening towards the ground. People scatter below them, not quite panicking just yet.

All of the drones turn to look at him.

"Oops," is all Peter gets out before they dive towards him.

It doesn't take long for Peter to realize that they're not that big of a threat. They're fast but not very agile, and are slow to react. As long as he hits them quickly, they don't put up much of a fight. The drones not really doing anything but chasing after him a little hazardously as he swings from building to building, mindless hunks of technology with a set target. More than anything, they're annoying to deal with.

Below them there are people craning their necks up, most with their phones out. Peter occasionally strikes a quick pose mid-air for the heck of it.

There's a point where one of the drones grazes him, but true to Karen's words, the suit doesn't split under the sharp blades. Real kudos to Tony.

Flipping into the swarm, he webs two together, and they fly erratically midair, each straining against the webs until they're tangled and falling for the sidewalk below, wings rendered useless. He slaps a web grenade on one, moving away just in time to see the webs cascade around four, and they follow the two to the ground.

Peter grabs one by the wings, dropping down into a dim alleyway and holding it out at an arm's length away so that the pincers can't reach him. The drone writhes wildly in his grasp.

"You're actually kinda cute," he remarks as he eyes his masked reflection in the giant silver lenses, "but it'd be better if you weren't trying to kill me."

He gives a small wave for any possible hidden cameras, and crushes the abdomen in his fist. It makes a metallic chittering noise before falling limp. Something yellow and sticky bursts from the drone, oozing onto his suit and staining his gloved hand. He drops it immediately.

"Ew. I take that back." Peter smears the substance off on the brick wall beside him before swinging off.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The swarm is down to six when Tony realizes that he's out and about. "You have an incoming call from Tony Stark," Karen pipes. Peter groans, steeling himself for the entourage of questions.

"Hi Mr. Stark," Peter quips as brightly after the soft _ping_.

"Why are you in your suit?" Tony demands. "I thought you already finished your patrolling."

Peter webs two to the side of a small shop, smushing them beneath his fists for good measure. "I _was_ ," he says, "but there were all these bee-looking things, and—"

"Those look like wasps, actually—"

"—and, well, I'm Spider-Man, so I gotta do my job of keeping everyone safe, and stuff."

Tony runs a hand down his face. "You're not gonna stop."

"Probably not, sorry. Uh, Karen—end call!"

"Mr. Stark has prohibited me from denying his calls," Karen informs him, sounding almost apologetic.

"You're not getting rid of me that easily, kid. Get back here." The smugness is audible in his voice.

"That's foul play—oh, gross!"

Tony, on the other end, sits up in his chair sharply. "What?" His eyes slide over to the suit monitor on the screen beside him. Nothing has penetrated the suit, but there's something messing with the connection. It buffers briefly, and while Peter seems to be saying something, he can only pick up bits and pieces of it. "Peter? Are you there?"

"Still here." The connection clears up. There's an audible grimace. "I dunno, one of them sprayed me with some—some yellowy stuff." Tony hears heavy breathing as Peter bolts to the nearest alleyway.

"Don't do anything stupid," Tony cautions. "I mean it." He can hear his pulse in his ears. It seems louder than usual.

"I won't," Peter promises, followed by a short grunt. "Hey, was I pollinated? Is this drone-pollen? Is that why it kinda stings?"

"Peter—"

"It's not as bad as it sounds!" There's a faint shuffling noise, as if he's furiously wiping at the substance. "It's sorta sticky."

"Tell your insect friends to go back to where they came from and get back over here," Tony orders. The pulse still in his ears. It's louder.

"Spiders are arachnids, actually." Peter grunts as he swerves sharply out of the drones' reach, driving his feet into one and sending it spiraling to the ground.

"At the very least, lay low. May will throw a fit if she catches me letting you loose whenever you want to." _I don't want you to get hurt_ , he doesn't say.

"Laying low's not really a _thing_ when you've got this flashy red suit, Mr. Stark."

Tony pauses. "Bring one of those back with you when you're done," he says instead, choosing to ignore the remark.

"Roger tha— _oof!_ "

Tony's heart skips a beat at the involuntary sound that's forced out of Peter. "Peter?" Silence. "Peter, you still with me?"

Tony keeps the phone pressed to his ear, pulling up a monitor and quickly deploying a suit from the basement. Thankfully, Peter hadn't gone out of his way to remove the tracker for a second time. He waits until the monitor pings with the suit's location.

"FRIDAY," he calls.

"I'm way ahead of you, sir."

~ ~ ~

Tony finds him winded in a dumpster.

Part of the Baby Monitor Protocol includes alerting him whenever Peter receives an injury of some sort. Normally he'd leave the kid to fend for his own, but Tony happens to have to take a little more responsibility for the him than usual with his aunt away and Peter residing under his care. Reviewing the footage later, he'd find that Peter did do a good number on whatever the drones were. As he was swinging, one of them sliced through his webbing, sending Peter sprawling straight into a wall and landing perfectly into the dumpster, knocking him out momentarily.

"Oh," Peter says breathlessly to the sound of the suit hitting the ground beside him, the lenses of his mask squinting up at him blearily. "Hey man."

"Don't 'hey man' me. You alright?"

Tony extends a hand, lifting Peter out of the dumpster. Peter claws at the edge of his mask and yanks it off, blinking a little dizzily. He's a little pale, twin trails of blood leaking from his nose. His hair sticks up in a frizzy mess. Peter runs a hand through his hair, cursing as a gush of fresh blood dribbles from his nose, spitting sourly as they dribble past his lips. He pinches his nose with one hand, the other one wiping above his lips, not really doing anything but smearing it even more.

A quick vital scan tells Tony that he's uninjured. Shaken, but uninjured. Tony lets out a breath of relief.

Peter sniffs wetly. "Do you, uh, happen to have a tissue on you?"

"What, in this suit? No," Tony says, knocking on the hollow helmet. "You're coming back with me. No 'buts'."

"Oh. Um, do you have any spare clothes I can borrow then?"

~ ~ ~

The real, out-of-suit Tony meets him at the front of the Tower. As they enter the lobby, close to everyone stares. Tony can't really blame them. It's one thing when the CEO of one of the highest profiting businesses in the world graces you with his presence, and it's another thing when said CEO has a bleeding child trailing quietly behind him.

In the elevator, Peter picks absentmindedly at the blue sweater that falls over candy-pink Hello Kitty pajama pants, both far too large on Peter's smaller frame. "One question: why do you own these pants?"

"Specifically for when you bleed all over your suit and have to change into something else."

"Really?"

"No."

Peter adjusts the clothing self-consciously, bunching the collar up to his chin, hoping that the Spider-Man suit underneath it isn't visible. The elevator dings after its ascent, and Peter runs out of the elevator, barreling towards the bathroom. Rhodey's the only one there, seated on the couch with an open book at hand, his bionic leg braces standing lifeless beside it. Glancing up, he looks appropriately mortified at the sight of fresh blood smeared all over Peter's face. "Jesus, Tony, what did you do to the kid?"

"What makes you think that I would do anything? He fell on the stairs," Tony lies smoothly. "Try not to get blood on anything," he calls after Peter, receiving the sound of the sink handles squeaking in response. "And FRIDAY, turn on the coffee maker."

Rhodey raises an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that you _used_ the stairs."

"Surprise," Tony says lamely. Peter emerges fresh-faced from the bathroom a moment later, his hair a little tousled. As he begins heading to his borrowed room, he stops in his tracks, hands flying to the pockets of Tony's sweater.

"I, uh, I think I left my phone out there. I didn't have pockets for it, so I ditched it somewhere."

Tony sighs heavily, making a mental note to install pockets on the suit. "I'll send someone out to get it."

"Sorry." Peter winces. "But don't you need to know where it is?"

"You underestimate me." Tony picks up the coffee mug that's now filled to the brim, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. "You left your phone in there, right? We can track it."

"Oh," Peter says in a small voice. "So since I don't have my homework right now, can I...?" He pokes his thumb towards the lab as his voice trails off, looking up at Tony hopefully.

Tony waves him off. "Fiddle at my desk? Go ahead. Just don't touch the stuff I told you not to."

Peter shuffles off, first disappearing into his room to change.

Rhodey stares at him in disbelief as soon as the kid is out of earshot. "What the hell has this kid accomplished in life for him to have the right to go in there unsupervised? It took me a whole four months to even step foot in the room."

"It's complicated," Tony supplies unhelpfully. He slips out his phone, pulling up the coordinates on Peter's phone and sending them to Happy.

_Tony: Find this kid's phone for me._

_Happy: Not to be demanding or anything, but I think I deserve a raise for always having to put up with the kid._

_Tony: I'll have a word with your boss._

_Happy: You're my boss, Tony._

Rhodey's phone dings, and he pulls it out to glance at the screen, only to slump back with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes briefly in resignation. "Are you kidding me? I just sat down."

A separate voice makes them both turn. "Going out again?" Vision, in his human form, steps out of the elevator, dropping four grocery bags on the counter. His skin reverts back to a metallic red in front of them.

"Sometimes I wonder if Ross could possibly hate me any more than he hates you." Rhodey folds down the corner of the page he's on, snapping the book shut and setting it down. He pushes himself up. The bionic leg braces swallow Rhodey's legs with a whirr, and he stands, walking stiffly out of the room. The legs are far from perfect, at the moment. Tony laughs at him.

"Shut it, Tones."

He slips past Vision as he's leaving, and the two exchange brief nods of greeting. Not as friends just yet, but as teammates. They're all not quite there; it's something they need to work on.

The android pulls open the fridge, storing the eggs and milk. He sets the bag of clementines beside the fruit bowl on the counter, the rest going into the pantry.

Vision moves up beside him just as Tony begins pouring himself a cup of coffee, lacing his fingers together and leaning on the counter.

They both look up as Peter re-emerges in a gray shirt and jeans his own size. He waves as he passes them. "Hi, Mr. Vision," the boy greets.

Vision acknowledges him with a smile as he disappears behind the door. Evidently, Peter didn't listen when the other had insisted on dropping the honorifics. Tony doesn't miss the fond look that flits over the android's expression. It's pretty difficult _not_ to be fond over the kid, he admits to himself as he raises the mug to his lips. He smiles a little into his coffee.

"So," Vision says without missing a beat as soon as Peter's gone, leaning casually against the counter. "Spider-Man, hmm?"

Tony spits out his coffee.

Vision watches quietly as he chokes and sputters. Downing another gulp or two, Tony pulls a tissue from the tissue box and wipes gingerly at the saliva-mixed coffee that stains the front of his shirt.

Tony wants to ask where the notion came from, but he happens to have an idea of what the answer might be.

"What did Wanda tell you?" he asks in a low voice.

"Wanda didn't tell me anything," Vision corrects quickly. "I don't think she would tell anyone, not even me. She cares a little too much for him to do something like that."

"That didn't stop her from invading his privacy," Tony objects before he can stop himself. He can feel himself flaring up.

Vision ponders for a moment. "I'm not going to defend Wanda's actions," he begins carefully. "She was wrong. But I knew from day one that the boy means something more to you than just an intern. I think we all did.

"I would be blind not to realize. When Spider-Man swings straight into an alley wall, Peter shows up with bruises on his face. When Peter Parker was essentially placed under house arrest to force him to study for upcoming tests, Spider-Man was nowhere to be seen for the rest of the day for the first in months. And I did a bit of snooping myself. It wasn't difficult to put two and two together from there. Once the suspicion enters your mind, it doesn’t leave until you confirm it."

Tony runs a hand down his face. "Does that mean that _everyone_ could've figured it out?"

Vision ponders. "Well," he says hesitantly. "I don't mean to brag, but I do like to call myself quite intuitive. And a few on this team aren't exactly known as the brightest of people."

"Even so," Tony sighs. "Could you young ones, like, possibly tone it down a little on trying to scare the living shits out of me? And be a little...quieter." He glances back at the door.

"Sorry," says Vision, not sounding sorry at all. "But I thought that you would've known that I know by now." He pauses. "If confidentiality is what you're concerned of, then you have my word that his secret remains safe with me. I'll refrain from discussing the topic with Wanda as well, if you'd like."

"That'd be great, thanks." Tony purses his lips when they both fall silent, feeling as if there were certain words left unspoken. "And you don't have anything else to say?"

Vision holds his gaze evenly. "I'm mildly disappointed in you, as you would expect. But without you, I do suppose that Peter would be dead many times over. For that, I'm thankful of you for keeping him safe. And if it bothers you at all, Wanda will come around eventually. I know it."

He watches Tony as he turns back to his tablet at the android's comment, waiting for a moment before speaking again. "I can't say that the others will be pleased to hear this information. You must be prepared to face the consequences of your actions."

"It doesn't matter," Tony snaps, "because they won't be 'hearing this information' at all."

"Perhaps," Vision agrees. "But the number of people who know can only grow larger from here. Nothing stays secret forev—"

"Mr. Stark?"

Peter peeks out from behind the door, pushing it further open so he can slip through. Tony clears his throat loudly, hoping to god that whatever heightened senses Peter had hadn't enabled him to listen in on their conversation.

"Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good."

Tony walks up to him, grabbing Peter's chin and tilting his head towards him, setting the back of his hand against his forehead. He's certainly warm, a little paler than usual, his eyes bleary and unfocused. He draws the two of them away from Vision, who has the decency to act busy with the newspaper article sitting on the counter. He lowers his voice so that the android can't pick up on what they're saying. "What happened?"

"Um, I think one of them pollinated me." Peter takes a small step back, pulling away from Tony's grip. "They sprayed me with the weird yellowy stuff, remember?"

"I'll have Helen give you a quick checkup tomorrow. You tell me if it gets any worse, okay?"

Peter hums noncommittally in affirmation. Tony raps his knuckles on the intern's forehead. " _Okay?_ "

He ducks out of the way. "Okay, okay!"

Peter starts to leave, but Tony calls with a start, "Oh, and I've got your phone."

The device is considerably more damaged than it was the last time Tony saw it, every inch covered in jagged cracks. Peter beams nonetheless, but before he can stow it away in his back pocket, Tony stops him, taking the phone from his hand.

"You’re in dire need of an upgrade," Tony deadpans, turning it over in his palm. "Tell you what. Since you’re sick, I’m officially placing you under house arrest until further notice. And if you actually do what I say, I’ll get you a new phone."

Vision, who he forgot was there in the first place, raises a nonexistent eyebrow. "What is this, parenting?"

"But what about school?" Peter asks, acknowledging Vision's comment with a small quirk of his lips.

"Kids gotta take time off when they’re not at their best. Plus, you’re a smart kid." Tony puts a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Don’t let Stark get you too far in your own head," Vision says good-naturedly.

He shrugs. "I'm not lying; he could probably _teach_ those classes."

Peter grins bashfully, making no move to contradict him.

Tony rolls his eyes. "I already gave you your phone, what're you still doing here? Shoo."

He waves him away, watching affectionately as Peter bounds off with a noticeable spring in his step.

Vision eyes him, humming softly. Tony turns to look at him quizzically.

"Not a very profound observation, but—" Vision's gaze flits back to the place Peter disappeared from just a moment ago. "You look the same way Wanda does when you're around that boy."

"And what would that be?" Tony sets the mug in the sink.

"Happy."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint's a real peach. I love him.
> 
> I saw that a few people were concerned about Wanda’s actions from the first chapter. Don't get me wrong, I love her to death. While this isn't necessarily redemption, she's far from a bad person.
> 
> To be honest, I'm not sure if I'm happy with this chapter. I feel like I bit more off than I can chew, and I wasn't too sure what the end goal was with this one. Ultimately, there is none, not for this chapter. It's all superfamily being superfamily, so I hope you enjoyed it!


	4. Impromptu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry for the huge delay. I got caught up in my own personal issues and often didn't have the time and/or motivation to work on this, and my first draft was deleted after my iPad was wiped so I'm really sorry about that. This chapter's kind of mediocre so I can't really say that I made up for the wait, but here ya go :/
> 
> I'm really nervous about this chapter for some reason...all constructive criticism is ALWAYS welcome, but please be kind about it, I'm a sensitive person :(
> 
> (Shameless self-promo: follow my new Instagram fanpage @itsparkerluck, it's still really small and I'd appreciate it if you just checked it out)

 

IV.

 

 

Peter dreams a lot. More accurately, he remembers a lot of his dreams.

It's a thing now, that depends a lot on his evenings. Most of the time, they're nice dreams. When he's aced a science test or felt pride in having helped a lot of people that particular day, he gets dreams about swimming with manta rays or sprinting through fields of chrysanthemums on a sunny day, the kinds that he doesn't want to wake up from.

Other times, when his body's desperately sore from patrolling or his eyes are bloodshot from staying up so late to study and he's feeling especially shitty, he gets not-so-nice dreams. The most common themes seem to be guns and getting crushed under tons and tons of creaking concrete, and not being able to breathe. 

Today, thankfully, is a nice dream. It's—as much as he remembers—it's sitting in a dark, dark room, curled up against a wall with his head in his arms and listening to the pounding of rain overhead. The blindness enhances his already sharp hearing, and he mentally maps out where each raindrop lands, the shape and size of each droplet of water. There's no superhero mantle to maintain, no one around to let down again and again. He's very alone, but it's not so lonely.   


The sound of a door opening cuts through the white noise, and Peter's very suddenly ripped from the dream, his senses coming back to him. The brighter room turning his eyelids dark red, the warm cocoon of thick, thick blankets that he's nestled in, rushing to him all at once.

For a moment, he balances on the edge of consciousness, his eyes shut firmly as the remnants of the hazy dream slips from his grasp.

Only then is he aware of the quiet breathing beside his ear.

"Boo," says Clint. Peter screams.

Clint moves back as Peter impulsively lashes out, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Rise and shine, cupcake. The sun is out, the sky is clear, the birds are singing. Chirp chirp. Get up."

Peter stares at him for a moment, breathing heavily, before dropping his head back to the pillow with a soft groan. He curls up on his side, his back facing the archer.

Clint huffs, standing up and moving to the window. He draws the curtains apart with a sharp jerk, allowing sunlight to filter into the room. Peter's head pounds at the sudden brightness, pulling the sheets over his head as he fights back sudden nausea. 

"Mr. Barton," he says feebly. Clint, however, is unapologetic, reaching down to tug at the edges of the blankets. Peter only bunches it up further into his own fists.

"How are you even surviving under those blankets? I've got nothing but jeans and a tee and I'm already sweating." Clint prods at the mound beneath the blankets.

"'S cold," Peter mumbles, pulling the sheets down to his nose and blinking rapidly as his eyes adjust to the light.

"Cold? It's 90 degrees outside—" Clint squints, standing up and regarding the boy with his hands on his hips. "It's a weekday, too. You have a fever?"

Peter rolls over on his back, looking up at him with the sheets bunched up under his chin. That much was true. "Of the sorts. Mr. Stark isn't letting me go to school today."

"Ah. I know how that feels. Except I'm not allowed to see my family because it puts people's lives at risk. All that fun stuff." Clint glances over at the small Spider-Man clock sitting on Peter's desk, choosing not to comment on the way his cheeks flush red. "It's still late, though. You can't spend all morning on your deathbed. I'll leave you alone for now, but I'm expecting to see you in the kitchen within the next twenty minutes."

"Yes, sir."

The ex-Avenger looks down at him warmly. "What did I tell you? Drop the honorifics, it's weird."

"Okay," Peter says in a small voice. 

They both know full well that it's not happening anytime soon. Clint lets it slide.  
  
  


~ ~ ~

  
  
The first thing Peter does when he gets up is dry-heave into the toilet, empty stomach churning unpleasantly as the urge to gag coils in his throat. Helen had told them that the drone-pollen was, for the most part, harmless but with minor side effects, fever being one of few.

When he walks into the kitchen, Clint, Steve and Natasha are there, Steve with his back turned in their direction and busy at the stove and Natasha flipping disinterestedly through a book. Clint, on the couch, greets him with a wave. The redhead raises an eyebrow in their direction. "I heard screaming, what was that about?"    
  
"You've heard a lot of screaming before," Clint shrugs offhandedly. Peter sits down at the seat diagonal to Natasha's, suddenly feeling very small amidst celebrities.

She gives him a weary look. "Clint," she sighs. "I thought you learned your lesson when Bucky gave you a black eye for waking him up like that." 

"You know me, Nat. Lessons aren't my thing."

Steve moves up beside them, setting down a plate of two mini-waffles and bacon in front of Peter. "That's not really something to boast about, Clint."

Peter's gaze flits down to Steve's apron. It's dark blue.  _ Hi Hungry, I'm Steve, _ it says, but the 'Steve' is messily written in sharpie. He looks away to swallow back a giggle.

"I didn't buy this. Sam got it for me on my birthday," Steve says defensively when he follows his gaze. "And I made bacon and waffles, if that's okay. I don't know how to make much else." Steve reaches back to untie the apron, looking almost apologetic.

Clint grabs the apron after Steve slips it over his head, bunching it up and slapping the blonde's bicep lightly with it. "Shut up, Steve. You're the best cook around here." He shoves the apron into a cabinet under the counter.

"That doesn't feel like much of a compliment—"

"Out. Out," he demands, nudging Steve towards the door. 

Steve chuckles lightly, stepping back. He jabs his thumb over his shoulder. "I'm gonna hit the gym. You know where to look, if anyone needs me."

"We won't," Natasha calls without looking up from the book.

"And ask Bucky if that water bottle with the green cap is his, will you? That thing's been sitting there for ages."

"Duly noted." Steve gives them a loose salute before disappearing behind the door.

"Stars and Spangles is getting cockier by the day," Clint huffs as soon as Steve is out of earshot.

Peter turns back to his plate, nudging the bacon off to the side with a fork and lightly drizzling the still-warm waffles with Natasha's bottle of syrup before digging in. Natasha's gaze flicks up to Peter for a moment, before lowering back down to the pages of her book. She turns the page. "Tony's not around much, is he?"

He pauses briefly around a mouthful, taking a moment to chew and swallow. "He's a busy guy, I guess."

"One would think that Tony would stay around more for father-son bonding," Clint pipes from the corner of the room.

Peter rolls his eyes in mock exasperation. "He's not my dad, Mr. Barton."

"Maybe not by blood."

"Clint, leave him alone."

The archer holds up his hands in surrender. Peter hides a smile behind a strip of bacon. "I don't mind."

"See? He doesn't mind."

As soon as Peter spoons the last of the crumbs into his mouth, Clint swoops in to take the plate and utensils from him, setting it in the sink. He looks over to Natasha. "Whose turn is it to wash the dishes?"

She gives him a dismissive glance. "Certainly not mine, I washed them two days ago. You?"

"Not—" A pause. "Wait."

Natasha snorts. "Get to it, Clint."

Peter watches the banter, raising a timid hand in the air. "I could do the dishes, Mr. Barton."

Clint brightens considerably at the same time Natasha shoots him a glare. "Don't make the little guy do it, Clint. It's your job."

"The kid offered."

"I offered," Peter butts in.

Clint claps his hands together gleefully. "Then it's settled."

Peter chortles. He reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone in all its cracked glory, swiping to the camera to discreetly snap a quick picture of Natasha with an open book, sending it to Ned, accompanied by a text.

_Peter:_ _ Chillin with my bug pal :) _

_ Ned: asjhfjsdgjkhdkl holy shit _

Natasha chooses not to comment, a small smirk playing on her lips.

"Peter?" Her soft voice makes his head raise, cheeks flushing as he slips the phone under the table. "Get me a glass of water, will you?"

He hops to his feet a little too eagerly, the chair skidding a short distance behind him. "Y-Yeah, of course."

"What book you reading?" Clint asks her as Peter makes his way to the cabinets to grab a glass. 

Natasha lifts the book, with the cover facing Clint. "The Giver."

Clint squints. "Hmm. It any good?"

Natasha shrugs. "I heard it was good, but it's not really my thing."

"Then why're you reading it?"

"Because there's nothing else to—"

Two consecutive thuds cut through their conversation, swiftly drawing the attention of Clint and Natasha. When they look, Peter is sprawled on the floor, legs splayed in front of him, water glass rolling to a stop beside him, a growing puddle of water seeping into the carpet beneath it.

Natasha is by his side in an instant, and he blinks owlishly up at her as his head continues to swim. There's more worry in her expression that he probably could've accounted her for before this. Clint's head pushes into view, and a large, calloused hand comes to rest beneath his neck, supporting the back of his head.

It takes a moment for Peter to realize that he's saying something. 

"—eter? Peter, are you okay?"

Peter draws in a trembling breath, swatting away the hand that comes up to touch his forehead. He hoists himself shakily onto his elbows, pushing himself up to sit upright. Natasha's hand shoots out to rest supportingly on the small of his back as his arms nearly give out. Clint disappears from his peripheral.

"'M alright," he mumbles, but it's not half convincing, even to his own ears. Natasha presses the pads of her fingers against his temple, and he lets her.

"He's warm. And pale," she states calmly, but her eyes betray her concern. Clint reappears by his side, holding an opened water bottle to his lips. He drinks compliantly, a small stream of water dribbling down to his chin. 

"I'm fine, really," Peter protests, ears turning red at the sudden attention as he wipes away the water with the back of his hand. "Just a little—" He pauses when the next bout of nausea rolls over him, pounding at the base of his skull. "Just a little dizzy."

FRIDAY's disembodied voice sounds over their heads. "Although his condition is not critical, I would recommend that Mr. Parker rests for a while longer because he is, in fact, not fine."

"Thanks, FRIDAY," Peter mutters sarcastically. He makes a move to get up anyway, drawing his knees up to rock his weight to the balls of his feet. Clint, however, is quick to object.

He sets the water down on the coffee table and plants a hand flat on Peter's chest, keeping him seated. "Nope, absolutely not. You heard the robot lady, you're going to sleep. Tony would kill us if he caught wind of anything happening to you.

"But I just woke up," Peter protests faintly as Clint shoves his arms under Peter's body, carrying him to the couch. He sets him down gently, going into his own room to bring out a thin blanket and spreading it over Peter's body.

"Take a nap. Or at least try to," Clint insists. "FRIDAY, drop the drapes." There's a faint whirring sound as the curtains roll down to cover the windows, the room darkening in the process until the only source of light come from the slivers between each curtain. 

He looms over Peter threateningly, arms crossed. "You better not do anything weird while we're gone," he warns. After getting a quick nod from Peter, he excuses himself with a hesitant glance back.

Natasha continues to remain by his side, watching as Clint leaves. As the last of him disappears behind the door, she turns back to Peter, kneeling down beside his head.

"I know you're hardly one to abide by the rules, Peter, but I want you to stay and rest, okay? I don't want Tony breathing down my back for the rest of this month." She brushes the sweat-slicked curls from his forehead. "Close your eyes. Get some sleep. I mean it."

Peter has half a mind to protest, but Natasha's uncharacteristically gentle gaze effectively shuts him up. Making a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement, he turns around on the couch to face the back cushions, wriggling to get comfortable, and obediently shuts his eyes. He feels her gaze linger on his back.

Natasha, seemingly satisfied, hovers for a moment longer before leaving.

Peter sleeps. This time, there are no dreams.  
  
  


~ ~ ~

 

_ Shit. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. _

The suit disengages around Tony's body, and he drops down to the pavement, stumbling before righting himself. The past half hour flashes in his mind as a haunting echo—the ear-splitting explosions, the screams cut short too quickly as the building collapsed into a billowing cloud of dust. 

_ I ron Man can't save you, _ the terrorist had said. He couldn't. Thirty five wounded, eighteen dead. Seven of them children.

Tony can't see a damn thing in the darkness, save for the single flickering streetlight that illuminates the curb. The fog doesn't help either, remnants of the past hour's rain in the air, combined with the familiar smell of petrichor.

"FRIDAY?" he whispers into the night air, not with any particular question in mind but the overwhelming need to hear a / _ voice _ /.

She responds quickly. "It's 2 in the morning. The others have been expecting you since—"

"I need a drink." Tony leans heavily on the damp brick wall, catching his breath.

"I wouldn't recommend that, sir." FRIDAY sounds genuinely concerned.

"I'm touched."

He flies back to the tower instead of calling in a chaperone, relishing the birds-eye view of the city in early morning. When he lands on the outdoor platform and the suit disengages around him, it's to his relief that he finds the 30th floor shrouded in complete darkness. No evidence of the nightly prowling conducted by Bucky or Clint.

The glass doors part at his entrance. Not bothering to instruct FRIDAY to turn on the lights, Tony moves to where faint city lights reflect off of the countertop. He feels blindly for one of the bar stools and hops up, exhaling roughly as he reaches back to randomly grope for a bottle and a glass. It's already opened, and he takes a swig directly from the bottle. It's not his most exorbitant, but it'll have to do, he figures, as he tips it into the glass.

So he drinks. And he drinks, until he's lost count of how many drinks he's had and can barely hold his own head up. As the glass clinks against marble for the nth time, he holds his head in his hands, inhaling and exhaling slowly through his mouth. 

The sound of a door opening makes Tony's head swivel toward the source, muscles locking up as he hardly dares to breathe, ears straining for a second noise.

There's long beat, until a small, timid voice calls hesitantly, "Mr. Barnes?"

Ah, shit.

Tony's breath escapes him in a low, dry chuckle at the voice. "Not quite."

A pause. "FRIDAY, could you turn the lights on, please?"

"Keep them low," Tony interrupts quickly, not willing to experience the jarring migraine. "Very, very low."

As requested, the room very slowly begins to brighten until it reaches a level that's still dim, but light enough to faintly make out the details to each others' silhouettes. 

Peter stands by his own doorway, pajama-clad body half-exposed as he clings to the doorframe. Tony adjusts himself in the stool, carefully turning his back to Peter.

He waits. It doesn't take long, because Peter has whiffed out the overpowering musk of alcohol.

"Mr. Stark," Peter begins hesitantly. "Were you drinking?"

The question doesn't seem to need an answer, as if Tony's disheveled appearance and the near-empty bottle resting by his hand doesn't say enough. 

Tony steers away from the topic, promptly ignoring Peter's very obvious observation. "Why are you up? You're sick; you're supposed to be asleep."

"I slept a lot throughout the day," Peter admits, "so I couldn't really sleep. I heard you walking in, so I came out to see who it was."

Great. That's absolutely great. To be fair, it could've been worse. Running into Steve or Rhodey would've been more difficult to handle.

"Okay, here's what we're going to do." Tony runs a hand down his face, turning to look Peter in the eye. "You're gonna forget everything you saw, go back to sleep and say nothing of what happened here."

"That's not much of a 'we', Mr. Stark."

"Peter," he warns through clenched teeth.

Peter looks conflicted, eyes darting over Tony before diverting his attention to the floor. He doesn't move a muscle, showing no signs of having any intentions of doing so. There's a long bout of silence. He's upset, Tony realizes after a moment. He doesn't blame the kid.

"Peter, I'm serious." He's begging at this point. "Just go back to sleep. You don't get it, so leave it."

"I'm young, but that doesn't make me stupid," Peter lashes back, flaring up uncharacteristically. "Drinking—or at least drinking this much—isn't good for you. Even you've said that yourself."

"And when did I tell you that?"

Peter pauses, fiddling with his thumbs sheepishly. "You said it in an interview."

Right, an interview. Tony feels the dull pounding of a migraine beginning to surface, his eyes burning as he struggles to pry them open. "Go back to sleep. Now. I'm not fooling around."

The kid—the little shit just stands there, grinding his jaw in a not-so-threateningly way, stands there with his arms crossed, feet firmly planted into the floor. He doesn't budge.

Any other time and he would've humorously teased Peter of the incredibly pathetic attempt at looking fierce, but now is not one of those times. He clenches his fists on top of the counter, nails digging thin crescents into his palm as frustration bubbles up. He slams a hand on the table, the resonating thud splitting the quiet of the room. Thank god for sound-proof walls, Tony thinks vaguely.

Peter jumps, stance faltering when he takes an uncertain step back, eyes stretched wide in a look akin to fear. It instantly makes Tony feel like shit. He refuses to meet the kid's eyes, his own burning holes into the table.

Ah, regret, his old friend.

There's a long stretch of silence, Tony sitting as still as a stone and Peter wavering nervously at his side.

Tony sees Peter watching him in his peripheral. "What?" he snaps.

Peter flinches. It's a small movement, barely a twitch, but Tony catches it. 

He looks as if he's ready to say something but decides against it moments after, mouth opening and closing as he averts his gaze from the billionaire's.

"You reek of alcohol," he seems to settle for in a small voice, voice cracking with resignation.

_ What. _

"Peter?"

_ Look at me. _

Peter looks at him.

Tony sees something in his big, youthful eyes, something akin to a mixture of fear and helplessness and wonder, and it hits him that this is the first time he's let Peter—or anyone other than Pepper and the others he trusts with his life, for that matter—witness him in this vulnerable state, and it's bound to take some sort of toll, especially to someone like Peter, someone so young and innocent—and Tony's own protégé, for that matter. Yes, the media happens to have caught wind of his not-so-perfect coping habits but it's a whole different thing to experience it firsthand. He would know.

It could even be the first time the kid's seen an adult drunk to this extent.

Fuck. Maybe he really is a bad influence.

_ I'm sorry you have to see this, _ Tony thinks to himself, and it takes him a moment to realize that he's said it out loud, drunk-riddled mind taking away control over his own body, whisper just barely above a breath. And if Peter hears, he gives no indication.

It rips Tony back to his own senses when he feels small but strong arms circling around his shoulders. After a brief moment of hesitation, a warm body follows, pressing close to Tony, body warmth that's not his own surrounding the billionaire.

Tony stiffens. It makes Peter freeze for a beat, but he clings tighter onto Tony's unkempt suit.

"What the hell is this?" Tony grits out tersely between clenched teeth.

"It's a hug, Mr. Stark," Peter mumbles into his shoulder. "I thought you needed one."

The action is so uncomfortably affectionate, especially for Tony, and he has half a mind to shrug the kid off, but he decides against it when he feels Peter's head rest against his upper back, curly hair tickling his neck. Maybe the hug is more for Peter than for him.

Tony heaves a long sigh, watching the absent traffic below, thinly obscured through the window by the reflection of the dim lights of the room. At this time of day, when no healthy, law-abiding citizen should be awake, New York is still brightly lit. 

"Alright, alright," Tony huffs finally, gently prying himself from the boy's arms when he feels that the hug has gone on for too long. Peter is still avoiding his eyes, the awkwardness stifling.

"Now would be a good time to actually listen to what I've been saying for the past few minutes and get to sleep," Tony says offhandedly, patting his shoulder.

Peter bites his lip. "Like I said, can't sleep. I basically slept through the whole day."

A beat of silence follows, in which neither of them know what to do.

In an awkward attempt to repel the tension, Tony jabs his thumb over his shoulder toward the TV and couch. "Movie night?" He tilts his head to the pantry. "There's popcorn, if you want."

Peter glances up at him, wide-eyed. "You have movies?"

"I have Netflix. Everyone has Netflix."

Peter brightens considerably, giddiness apparent when his eyes stretch wide with awe. Tony fights back a smile himself, heaving himself to his feet and moving to the couch. "Don't just stand there, then. You in or you out?"

The offer of food is forgotten when Peter vaults over the couch, landing comfortably on the cushion and pulling the blanket that was folded beside him tight around his body. "In."

Tony follows more slowly, sitting on the opposite side of the bed after turning on the TV. "What movie?"

Peter takes a moment to think. "Ever watched Dead Poets Society?"

"Nope."

"It's a classic. I think you'll like it." Peter jumps up to grab the remote. Tony doesn't even get the chance to object before he begins typing it into the search bar, but whatever. After today, he figures he at least owes the kid this much.  
  
  


~ ~ ~

 

As the last note of the final soundtrack fades to silence and the credits begin to roll, they both stare at the screen with dazed quiet. Tony's gaze slides over to Peter. No wonder there was none of Peter's excitable chittering throughout most of the movie. He's slumped against the armrest, remote still in his slackened grip, blanket tugged securely around his shoulders, legs drawn up in a fetal position. So much for not being able to sleep.

He leans forward, carefully easing the remote from Peter's fingers, turning off the TV. He would've told FRIDAY to do it, but Peter could be a light sleeper, for all he knows.

Tony sits there for a while, doing nothing but listening to Peter's and his own slow breathing, staring blankly at the reflective surface of the coffee table. With a soft sigh of resignation, he pushes himself to his feet, taking unsteady steps towards the hallway. 

Walking past the counter, Tony takes a moment to look at the tablet that sits off to the side. More often than not, he uses it to browse recent events during nighttime before he goes off to bed. He regards it for a moment, before moving past. He's decidedly had enough negativity for one day, even at 2 in the morning.

Casting one final glance behind him at Peter's sleeping form, he flicks off the lights to be met with darkness.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still another 7 years until I can legally drink and al knowledge of it is based on books/movies/fanfics so don't come for me if there are any inconsistencies lmao (but please do correct me) and also, I love Tony's beautiful drunk ass and anyone else can fight me
> 
> I wasn't too sure about how to characterize some of these characters and I'm sure there are some inconsistencies here, so if there's anything jumping out at you, feel free to bring it up in the comments for later reference. And leave behind any thoughts in general. And just to clarify for those who may wonder, the hug was completely friendly. I do NOT tolerate Starker in this household. ALSO: I'd REALLY REALLY appreciate it if I could get ideas for chapter 5. I know what I'm gonna do for the +1, but no idea for 5. Anything and everything helps!!!
> 
> (Again, ig is https://www.instagram.com/itsparkerluck/?hl=en, feel free to give me thoughts, suggestions for chapter 5 or other fic ideas there!)


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